French Word-A-Day

la recolte

Rock on -- la récolte commence! That's my belle-soeur, Cécile, who is back--along with her friends, to help us with this third harvest.

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la récolte (lah ray kolt) noun, feminine

    : harvesting; collecting; gathering
    : harvest, crop
.

     Rent Robin's Paris apartment!

Audio File & Example Sentence: (check back for the sound file...)

Cette année la récolte des raisins s'annonce bien!
This year's harvest is looking good!

A Day in a French Life...
by Kristin Espinasse

And weeere off! The wine harvest began on Saturday.... and continues today! To the clanking of metal, the hum of the tractor -- and the bark of the mother-dog - I type this early morning dispatch.

We jump-started this, our 2009 récolte,* in a field of grenache where the wind swept swiftly over the low-lying "gobelet"* vines. Arriving with our children, I found the rest of the équipe* had advanced halfway up the vine rows. Max, Jackie and I quickly grabbed buckets and sécateurs* and headed out to the unpicked rangées.*

Right off, I discovered that my cutting shears were dull and tried to trade them off with the grape chef.  Only, Jean-Marc held his own, suggesting I pick a better pair next time...

Tant pis.*  I'd figure out how to trade with him later, meantime I needed to catch up with the others by filling my bucket. To do so meant bending over at the hip to reach the near ground-level grapes. I remembered an astuce* from years of picking: back straight, bend at the knee! And, like that, I fell gently to my genoux* in order to save my back.

An hour or so into the harvest, my knees began to crack and, in order to save them, it was necessary to switch strategies: straighten the legs and bend the back.... either way crack, crack, crack!

I observed the other harvesters, who practiced one or the other back- or knee-saving solutions: my sister-in-law was here helping out, along with three of her girlfriends -- and the four of them came up with yet another idea to stop the pain: le mini-break. I watched as the women set down their buckets and pulled out their tobacco. Next, their backs to the wind, they shook out the dried leaves over thin paper squares for rolling. After a few puffs, they resumed harvesting, the thin, uneven cigarettes dangling from the edges of their mouths as they laughed and chatted, sharing everything from recipes to crude jokes. Hidden behind my row of grapevines, I laughed at their jokes... and longed for their freedom -- or natural expression -- the kind that comes when we are outward focused and not gazing inward, ever questioning. Perhaps the trick is to stop doubting... and just do.

And so I focus outward, on the twisted, dry, decades-old vine before me. The venerable plant is on its last (and only...) leg, like the others in this row, and therefore giving out little bunches of grapes or grappions. * I listen to my brother-in-law curse the grappions, and all this back-breaking bending and knee-splitting squatting for only a few tiny bunches of fruit each time! (He'll have to wait until a day later, when we get to the high (wire-trained) cinsault, to declare such grapes a pleasure to harvest.)

Meantime, others of us try to focus on the short vines and the small pleasures they bring: there are wild fuchsia-colored sweat peas that dot the field, and the sweet scent of fall on the horizon! Other trouvailles* await us as well: it is the old hand-rake that Max finds beneath a tangle of vines ("we'll keep it," his father says, "put it in the tractor!"), and there's the onion sauvage* that Jackie II uncovers. "I'll have it for lunch!" she announces, tucking it in her pocket, resuming her picking.

I listen to Jackie II (a friend of my sister-in-law, who is helping us for the third time) practice her Spanish with an Italian picker/friend, who has learned the language before she did. In focusing on the language, Jackie tells me, she keeps her mind from turning round and round, something (I might add) that tends to happen when practicing the monotonous chore of grape-picking. I take heart to know that even these rock-n-roll women have the same restless mind that I do. Some call it monkey mind, others le diable,* either way a reeling, ego-focused mind is hell on earth. 

Voilà, in a nutshell, the harvest: it is discovery, camaraderie, and -- inescapably -- aching backs and cracked knees. I am learning that it helps to look up, from time to time, beyond the grape rows and the work (and ever-working mind) to the sky or the horizon beyond. It is that outward focus, whether on language or the lointain* -- that keeps us going strong, humming somewhat steadily along.    

***
Comments, corrections--and stories of your own--are enjoyed and appreciated.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~French Vocabulary~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
la récolte = the harvest; gobelet ("en gobelet") = untrained vines (not held/propped up by a wire); une équipe = team; le sécateur (m) = pruning shears; une rangée (f) = row (trees, vines); tant pis = oh, well; une astuce (f) = clever idea (way to do something); le genou (m) = knee; le grappion (m) = little grape cluster; une trouvaille (f) = a find; sauvage = wild; le diable (m) = devil; lointain = faraway, distant (horizon)

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Puppy Update!

See a picture of the dad, here, and read about the lune de miel that he offered our Braise...


Only one silly boy and five girls... silly we had it all wrong at five boys, one girl...


The puppies are walking! Look at this little guy strut his stuff! They are also playing and continue to make their unusual noises (it often sounds as though we had parrots--or tropical birds--in the next room...)

gracieux

Jean-Marc and the Croatian fishermen. Read on, in today's story column... 

gracieux (grass-yeuh) adjective

    : gracious, welcoming

...do you know of any terms or expressions that fit with today's word? Thanks for sharing them in the comments box -- for all to enjoy!

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Audio File: Listen to my son Max pronounce these French words: Download Gracieux

Les Croates qui nous ont invités à boire le café sont accueillants et gracieux. The Croatians who invited us for coffee are hospitable and gracious.

A Day in a French Life...
by Kristin Espinasse

Nearing the end of our Croatian vacation, we still hadn't realized a pre-set goal: to buy fish from the natives -- and not in the frozen-foods section of the discount supermarket. Our remote village was far from a fish market... but that didn't mean we were far from the local fishermen!

Jean-Marc and I left the kids in bed to faire la grasse matinée* and, following in the echo of the rooster's crow, we drove to the nearest port. If the little fishing village in question were sans tourists, it was thanks to the cement factory on the pier, which, to some, might be one giant eyesore. To others, the great usine* on the water's edge made an interesting contrast to the serene scene down below, where a Franco-American couple ventured over the rocky coastline, out to the water, to wait patiently for the bateau pointu* in the distance...

As the tiny boat approached, Jean-Marc and I could just barely make out a man and a woman. The man was seated, busy working with the fish net, and the woman, in a bright red pair of overalls, assisted. Soon, the boat reached the humble dock and Fisherman and Fisherwoman unloaded their catch, which they began to carry across the rocks. Jean-Marc offered to help, but the woman shook her head, offering a smile of thanks anyway. I noticed the woman looked a slightly older than the man... and I wondered about their relationship: mother and son... or cougar* and younger amour.

We followed les pêcheurs*up the lane, until we reached an apartment complex beside which a one-level garage doubled as fish market. The man opened the garage door and began cleaning and storing their equipment. The fish were laid out on the floor, their eyes clear as the water from which they were hunted.

"Can we buy some fish?" Jean-Marc inquired.
"Yes, of course," the young man replied in English.

My husband chose three of the dorade* look-alikes, before realizing he'd left his wallet back at the rental home. "I need to go and get some cash," he informed the fisherman, taking the sack of poissons.* My wife will stay with you until I return."

I stood next to the remaining fish, feeling as out of water as the shiny-eyed victims lying on the ground beside me, and I silently cursed my husband for volunteering me as collateral for only 5 euros worth of fish! 

Soon, an old woman arrived and snatched up the remaining catch. "She uses the littlest ones for fish soup," the woman explained, as the neighbor walked away.

When the woman had finished her work she stood beside me as we waited for Jean-Marc to return. In the self-conscious silence, I thought to switch on my camera and show her the pictures I had taken from the dock.

When she saw her photo, she laughed, pointing to the large red overalls. Though we did not speak the same language, a woman's pride is universal. Only this woman, it seemed, had a sense of humor to match. I watched as she shook her head and laughed.

Next, she pointed to the man in the photo. "My son," she explained, unwittingly satifying my curiosity. So this was a family affair.

"Come inside?" she said, pointing to a second-story window, where a cat rested beneath a weeping willow. I felt embarrassed, wondering whether the woman felt obliged to entertain me during this wait (what was taking Jean-Marc so long?).

"Yes, yes, come inside," she repeated, sensing my hesitation.

I followed the fisherwoman upstairs, her son having disappeared into the recesses of the garage, and soon found myself at the polished dining room table of a home not much bigger than the "fish market" below. But oh, how it shined! There was a place for everything and everything had its place. I imagined the same was true on a houseboat: nothing in excess, only gleaming wood and a shipshape, orderly atmosphere. What knickknacks there were, were in harmony with the natural, the nautical.  And there was that touch of humor that I had perceived earlier. (I stared at the no-nonsense, unframed computer print-out tacked to the dining-room wall. On closer look, I saw an older man showing off a great catch. Beside the photo, someone had drawn a cartoon-like cat. The animal was depicted licking its lips, eyeballs shooting out, in the direction of the fish.)

"My husband," the woman explained, pointing to the picture.  With that, her son returned from the garage, Jean-Marc in tow.

The young man pulled the print-out off the wall and handed it to me for a closer look. "That's my father and his prize catch! He had to quit fishing when we could no longer make a living from it. He now works in Italy. My mother and I continue to fish, and sell what we can to the locals."

On this sad note, the woman disappeared into the kitchen. Looking around, from the shiny windows to the glimmering floor, I wondered if hard work helped soften the circumstances.

The woman was back, with a bright tray of cookies and coffee. Her son opened the glass armoir and pulled out a bottle of grappa. "No thank you," I said, noticing the hour: 7:30 a.m. "... but my husband would love some!" I said, getting him back after putting me up, earlier, for "collateral". Jean-Marc swallowed hard and politely accepted. Neither the woman nor the man joined him, but drank their strong coffee instead, leaving us the Italian wafer cookies to sweeten things.

Perhaps it was her lovely name, "Adriana," but the woman might have been a Sophia Loren look-alike -- only without the make-up and the decades that separated the two. I watched the relaxed way in which she sat back, took out a pack of tobacco, and offered us a smoke. As she took a long drag on her cigarette, I imagined it to be her one and only vice -- and how relaxing it must feel to her! I imagined, too, what it would be like to return from the tiring sea... only to entertain the curious tourists and their fish fancies.

And, I admit, I had to try hard to imagine having the same generosity and natural grace of these two fishermen, who had stopped in the course of their work-day to share themselves; theirs is a treasure greater than diamonds or gold... what's more, it is something they possess, deep inside, by the boat-load.

***
Post note: while paying the young lawyer and his accountant girlfriend for our rental home, I shared with them one of our favorite memories: meeting Adriana and son. "Oh, we know about your visit," the accountant pointed out. Though the young couple live in the city, almost a two-hour drive from the fishing village, word about the Franco-American tourists had reached them. I guess the messenger was the lawyer's grandmother, whose job it was to water our rental's garden each day. She must know the locals just as she knows her prized geraniums.

Comments, corrections--or stories of your own--are appreciated and enjoyed. Thanks for using the comments box to communicate. (I'm a little behind on email at the moment, but if you have written me an email that requires a response... I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks for your understanding.

Also, if you haven't yet... please pick up a copy of "Words in a French Life" for yourself... or for a friend. Merci d'avance!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~French Vocabulary~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
la grasse matinée = "the fat morning" (the sleep-in); une usine (f) = factory; le bateau (m) pointu = classic, small wooden Mediterranean fishing boat; cougar = an older woman who "hunts" younger men; les pêcheurs (m) = fishermen; le dorade = see this glossary; le poisson (m) = fish

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Puppy Pictures & Updates

...sort of an out-dated picture. By now the puppies are twice as old and twice as big! I have not done a good job of recording this on "film", for the little pups are too delicate to disturb. Their eyes are beginning to open, temporarily ice blue behind furry lids. They make the funniest noises and look so comical as they roll over onto their backs, big bellies pulling them down for a full roll-around. From the front, they look like little lambs, from the side, little piglets. They will be two-weeks old on Sunday. We think there are 5 males and 1 female. A voir.... (Remains to be seen...) So far they are nestled together, with mama, under the stairwell. We'll need to expand their "stomping grounds" before long (the puppies don't walk yet... for now, they "swim" across the blanket, paddling their little arms and pushing their little hind legs toward the milk source.

le mot juste

Door beads--and a would-be butterfly--were just part of the charm awaiting us at our vacation rental in Croatia. See another photo, below.

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le mot juste (leuh moh zhoost) noun, masculine

    : the exact word or expression

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Audio File & Example Sentence: Listen to my son, Max, pronounce the following French words: Download Le mot juste

...on va de nouveau éplucher nos mœurs et nos habitudes pour tenter de trouver le mot juste et surtout le bon sens." --Vive la rentrée, FranceSoir

Help translate today's quote... or add to the "mot juste" definition, in the comments box. Merci d'avance!

***

A Day in a French Life...
by Kristin Espinasse

We arrived in Croatia at 10:30 at night after a 14-hour drive from Ovada. This late in the evening, I could not yet make out the charming maisonnette* that was to be our rental for the next seven days.

The location* was part of a farmhouse, long since divided up like a Kit Kat wafer. If you stood facing the long building, you could easily pick out our unit, with its cheery lavender-colored façade, its little iron fence, geraniums tumbling down the sides. Above the patio a sprawling grapevine provided shade and a visual feast: clusters of sweet fruit. The bright little abode was bookended by the continuation of a grayish colored building in need of repair and refacing.

I looked up at the grapes each night as I sat reading in a cozy, cushioned chair.  Though I had brought a stack of books (ranging from "The Life of a Simple Man" to "Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress"), in the evening I took advantage of the serene setting for some scriptural study.

Around the second or third night,  my feet propped up on a chair, I settled into my cozy routine. That's when I heard the crunching of gravel. My ears tuned in to the driveway, just outside our enclosed patio, as I listened to the sound of Croatian steps approaching.

I soon sensed the presence of a stranger on the other side of the fence, just inches from where I sat. 
"Hello," I said.
"What are you reading?" the stranger nodded his reply.

Caught off guard, I thought about the object of my study, and how prayer isn't something you shout from the rooftops; just like tithing -- where your left hand shouldn't know what your right hand is doing -- worship should be done in private. No need to blab about holy matters, or how much they matter to you -- when actions speak louder than words.

But with the stranger's eye now poking right through the bars of the front fence, I had no other option but to reveal my spiritual zeal.

"I... am reading the Bible," I replied.
"Yes, but which book?"

For a moment, I was confused, for I had already told the stranger what book I was reading: the Holy Bible.

I looked up at the man, who waited for my answer. He was tall and thin, with shoulder-length locks. He looked to be about my age, forty-something.

Book... In fact, the stranger had already identified the livre* that I was reading (the gilded pages were a giveaway) and wanted to know which chapter I was reading -- only he had correctly called the sections "books".

Distracted, I had to look down to the delicate pages to answer his question.
"Romans," I informed him.

The man nodded and there followed a moment of silence, one I was anxious to fill. Only, what to say?

"Do you read the Bible?" I inquired, feeling like a Sunday-school teacher's pet. I hoped I didn't sound that way -- but I could think of nothing else to say.

"Sometimes. When I am not working," replied the stranger.

I remembered the other Croatians that I had recently met, all of whom were so busy working to make ends meet that vacation--even home-bound R&R and meditation--were an unaffordable luxury.

"Do you live around here?" I asked.
"No, I live in the city."

I thought about all the HLM's* we had passed by, dingy gray façades that were peeling like sunburned giants. The dilapidated units were piled one over the other, sky-high. There were hundreds of humble abodes within one dismal block of concrete. The blocks crowded the graffitied commercial centers, where we went to buy our bread and butter. What a contrast these "homes" were to the charming vacation rentals on the coast....

"My grandmother lived there," the stranger continued, pointing to a house up the dirt lane. "She passed away three years ago. She was ninety-one."

Listening to the grown man talk about his grandmother, I was at a loss for words, but managed a random reply:
"She had a nice life," I offered, once again petting another's pride.

"Not a nice life," the man corrected, "a long life".

Having said a simple goodbye, the mysterious man walked on, leaving me with the power of words--exact words, not fluffed up, flattering ones. I made a commitment, then and there, to make an effort to practice precise speech, to slow down in time to search for les mots justes,* for exact words--and to have the confidence to deliver them. Even the overworked stranger had made the time, and had had the self-respect, to do as much.

I closed my "books," as the stranger had justly called them, and relished the unexpected lesson, on truth, that I had learned from the other side of the fence. 

***
Comments, corrections--or stories of your own--are always welcome and enjoyed. Please use the comments box to respond to this story.

***

Note: I will be joining two authors at the American Library in Paris, to talk about "fish-out-of-water experiences" living in la belle France. If, by chance, you are in Paris on Oct. 7th, we would love to see you at this meet-up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~French Vocabulary~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
la maisonnette (f) = small house; la location (f) = rental; le livre (m) = book; HLM = (habitation à loyer modéré) = rent-controlled housing subsidized by the government; le mot juste (m) = the precise, exact word

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***

A Croatian hummingbird Hummingbird Hawk-Moth for Newforest, who shares and teaches us so much about French language and culture, via the comments box. Newforest will be back with us in October. Bon courage and hugs. Our thoughts are with you.

Just like Newforest's comments, hummingbirds are one thing I miss already. I have yet to see a hummingbird in France, but stared at them endlessly as they drank from our bottle brush tree back in Arizona.

sauve qui peut

"Giggly & Pensive" in the town of Ovada, Italy. After a "game" of charades, this couple understood my request and graciously offered to pose for this photo. Don't miss another dozen photos of Italy, coming up in a future edition of my photo blog, "Cinéma Vérité.

sauve qui peut (sohv kee peuh) expression

    :  a general panic; stampede; chaotic disorder
    : "Every man for himself" : to bail out of a place or run for one's life

     Rent Robin's Paris apartment!

Audio File & Example sentence:
Listen to my eleven-year-old (who struggled with the long and complicated excerpt) pronounce these French words: Download MP3 file

Le sauve-qui-peut des investisseurs mettait fin à une longue période de hausse des cours boursiers qui avait notamment porté le Cac40 de 2.500 à 6.000... -Boursorama.

Help translate the above quote... or share any additional notes for today's expression "sauve qui peut" (literally "save who can"). Click here to access the comments box.

***

A Day in a French Life...
by Kristin Espinasse

On our way to Croatia, we stopped in the town of Ovada, Italy, to rest for the night.  The kids were exhausted from our latest amusing halt (the water park near Antibes), and opted to stay in and watch T.V. while Jean-Marc and I had a quick tour of the city at night.

On our way out of the hotel, the young man behind the desk tried to alert us to some sort of event going on in town... but Jean-Marc and I could not understand what he was saying. So we shrugged our shoulders, smiled politely, and headed towards the centre ville.*

The town of Ovada was a lucky choice. Though we had randomly chosen the site (for its convenience along our route to Croatia), Ovada clearly was a tourist destination. The ancient cobbled streets were packed, as were the bars. Jean-Marc found a seat at a terrace café and ordered a glass of the local wine. Quant à moi*... I didn't want to miss any photo opportunities... so I left my husband at the watering hole and set out to discover the stamp-size inner city.

I soon began to notice all the barricades, beginning at the café and strategically set up at the various wide-open places*. Though most of the people stood behind the protective barriers, I noticed the barricades didn't stop others from continuing on their way. And so I followed suit, so as to continue on my photo journey.

Busy snapping shots of the ancient façades, occasionally I would see the locals peering out from behind shuttered windows. Having secured their permission (via a begging--if not charming--smile... and a jiggling of my camera), the locals or "Ovadesi" were gracious, letting me snap a few close-ups). I couldn't believe my luck.

As I made my way down an increasingly dark and desolate street, paved by cobblestones and flanked by tall private dwellings, I heard the sound of a motor approaching along this pedestrian path... Turning, I saw the first vehicle. A Vespa! Unfortunately, it passed by too quickly for me to snap a photo -- though I did have time to notice the rider, who seemed to be waving his arm....

Soon enough, another Vespa passed and I realized it was the police who were speeding by. This policeman was also waving, just like the first one.... only, on closer look I realized it wasn't a friendly wave of the hand... It seemed more of a cautionary wave of the arm.

Back Away!? Was that what the policeman was trying to say? When a third policeman whizzed past, his face stone serious, there was no mistaking the warning signals. His waving arm seemed to shout and the message was universal: MOVE IT!

But where to move it? The road before me was long and its sides (centuries-old walls behind which residents were safely tucked in for the night) rose up to the sky....

Suddenly I remembered all those barriers that I had ventured past... and the increasingly empty streets... and the people watching from the.... safety... of their second-story windows.

OhMonDieuOhMonDieuOhMonDieu!!!*..... In a split second I guessed that this was the "special event" that the hotel clerk had been trying to tell us about: The running of the bulls!

WHaaaaah SAUVE QUI PEUT! In a panic, I realized there was no place to go. Looking up to the windows high above, not one Italian offered to throw me a rope--not even a knotted sheet--and so I had no other option but to fling myself into the closest recess -- a shallow door-well.  Next, I watched, heart beating like a hummingbird's, as a giant golden beast barreled towards me.

Without my glasses on, I could just make out the crowd that was running alongside the golden giant. Incredibly, the non-sauveteurs* in the windows above were cheering as the beast approached.

Though the scene was blurry, IMPENDING DOOM was clear to see. I raised my camera for the last time, and snapped a photo. In doing so, I was able to use the camera's lens for a closer look--after  my own eyes had failed me. This is when I heard the laughter of the approaching stampede and, seeing the "bull" up close, my own laughter soon mixed with that of the Italians. Turns out the golden beast was no other than a giant, rounded, botte de foin.*

***

Post note: back at the café Jean-Marc reported that he'd just witnessed an exciting local tradition: something about transporting the hay bales through town, as locals did in ancient times.

"Oh, the hay run? Yeah, I saw it too..." I remarked, still shivering from the false alarm, and all those imaginary golden bulls.

***
Comments, corrections--or stories of your own--are always welcome and enjoyed in the comments box. Thank you for your responses to these words and stories.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~French Vocabulary~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
le centre ville (m) = town center; quant à moi = as for me; la place (f) = (esplanade) square; OhMonDieuOhMonDieuOhMonDieu = OhMyGodOhMyGodOhMyGod; le sauveteur (m) = savior, rescuer; la botte (f) de foin = bale of hay

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The hay run in Ovada, Italy:

 Sorry about the blurry photo, but I was a little shakey behind the lens...

canard

No canard photos on file for you today. (I locked myself out of my "photos on file"... when my computer crashed last March.) I hope this "Croatian Door" will satisfy your appetite for a slice of Mediterranean life. Don't miss a dozen more slices in this Saturday's Cinema Verite photo gallery!

canard (kah-narh) noun, masculine

    : duck

faire un canard = to hit a false note
faire le canard = to keep quiet
mon petit canard = (term of endearment) my pet
le canard laqué = Peking duck
le canard boiteux = lame duck
le canard froid/vilain = (pejorative for) newspaper

Le Canard enchaîné (French: The Chained Duck or The Chained Paper) is a satirical newspaper published weekly in France. Founded in 1915, it features investigative journalism and leaks from sources inside the French government, the French political world and the French business world, as well as a large number of jokes and humorous cartoons. It is one of the most respected and oldest French newspapers, despite its often humoristic tone. You can subscribe to this journal. --Wikipedia

...know of any other "canard" terms or expressions? Please share them with us in the comments section.

Audio File: Listen to Jean-Marc pronounce these French words: Download PM3 file
Au lieu de discuter, l'employée du restaurant aurait du faire le canard!

The Ultimate French Verb Review and Practice : Master the essential building blocks of French-language fluency

A Day in a French Life...
by Kristin Espinasse

On our way to Croatia we took the exit near Antibes, so that our kids might have a break from the long car ride, in time to cool down at a popular water park. As we approached the ticket line, we were met by an unusual scalper: a woman, in a bikini, carrying a toddler on her hip. A few more children were in tow of the bikinied scalper, who explained that her friend hadn't shown up and now she was stuck with an extra ticket. We could have her ticket, she explained, for a sizable discount.

Even though we were dealing with a mom -- I was still suspicious. Turns out the ticket was legitimate and, on seeing the price menu to get into the water park, I realized the favor she had done us and immediately felt ashamed for having jumped to conclusions, yet again.

Bon,* we were supposed to be in vacation mode--and not guilt mode--and so I eventually turned my attention to Max and Jackie, who, soon enough, were barreling down the slippery water-park slides, building up an appetite.

At noon, Jean-Marc and I left our chaises-longues* and headed for the snack bar to get some sandwiches. Once again I was surprised to see the price menu. I'm afraid I must be like those people who are still stuck in the last century, still expecting a Coke to cost under a Euro and a sandwich, under 5. En tout cas,* it is interesting how the water-amusement park prices are similar to airport prices: once they trap you "inside" the park, where you are stuck with your stomach, you have no other option but to pay the price!

While I kept my complaints to myself, the man in line next to me was becoming increasingly vocal about his récriminations*; although price wasn't the issue for him: time was.

"Ça fait une demi-heure depuis que j'ai commandé des frîtes!* What's so difficult about making fries?" he wanted to know. "You dump some frozen potatoes into hot oil. How hard is that?"

Unlike the employees back home, in the States, the woman behind the counter argued back. By now, my husband was commiserating with the disgruntled, hungry man. On hearing the employee respond defensively, Jean-Marc, feeling the customer was in the right, remarked "the least she could do is 'faire le canard'."

"Oui," the disgruntled man agreed, "Elle pouvait faire le canard!"*

Meantime, my mind began drawing up colorful images of what it might mean to faire le canard or "do the duck". I pictured so many quacking canards, in chorus, but this didn't seem to be the right translation, for why would Jean-Marc suggest that the manager do something she was already doing (quacking)?

Jean-Marc explained that "faire le canard" meant the opposite: it means to "se taire". The woman, instead of arguing back, ought to have "shut her beak".

It was clear the manager was no duck. With two commiserating Frenchmen on either side of me and one self-righteous employee (who had just stomped off to see about those fries), the atmosphere was tense. I turned to "Monsieur Frîte":

"Maybe the employees are being trained?" I said, offering an explanation for the 30-minute wait.

"Trained in America!" he remarked, sourly.

Did I hear him correctly? Wasn't that an insult? I thought about getting my own feathers ruffled. It seemed odd that Mr Fry would say that to me, l'américaine (surely he had heard my strong accent?), especially after my husband had stood up for him. 

Besides, he was wrong about American culinary training: if those short-order cooks had been prepped in America, wouldn't Mr. Fussy Fry be seated, eating his frîtes by now?! I also had a mind to share with him a famous American service adage: The customer is always right. All the more evidence that the équipe* was not trained in America!

In the end, I decided not to get ruffled feathers--for, in the years that I have lived in France, I have never (or rarely) been intentionally dissed by a Frenchman. I told myself that his comment was not to be taken personally, that Mr French Fry was peeved, not prejudiced. In any case, I didn't want to jump to any more conclusions. Therefore, instead of trying to reason any further, with French Fry, I opted to take my husband's advice and "faire le canard." (Something I might have done, too, back at the ticket line, when the mama-scalper had offered us the discounted ticket.) When in doubt, do the duck!

***
Comments, corrections--and stories of your own--always enjoyed and appreciate. Thanks for responding in the comments box.

~~~~~~~~~~~French Vocabulary~~~~~~~~~
bon = right (conviction)
la chaise-longue = deck chair
en tout cas = in any case
la récrimination = gripe, grumbling
Ça fait une demi-heure depuis que j'ai commandé des frîtes! =
It's been a half-hour since I ordered fries!
elle pouvait faire le canard = she might shut her beak!
l'équipe (f) = (lunch) crew

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Film: The Chorus
When he takes a job teaching music at a school for troubled boys, Clément Mathieu is unprepared for its harsh discipline and depressing atmosphere. But with passion and unconventional teaching methods, he's able to spark his students' interest in music and bring them a newfound joy! It also puts him at odds with the school's overbearing headmaster, however, locking Mathieu in a battle between politics and the determination to change his pupils' lives!

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